


A Quiet Fortitude

by sahiya



Series: A Deeper Season [4]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Bujold
Genre: Angst, Grief, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Love, a deeper season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregor had always thought himself wise and patient for waiting, for loving Miles with a quiet fortitude all these years. Now he thought himself nothing but a coward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quiet Fortitude

**Author's Note:**

> Fuzzyboo asked me for this once and I went, "Oh, yeah, that'd be a cool scene to write." Spoilers for _Mirror Dance_.

Gregor needed more coffee.

Normally he limited himself to two cups a day - one over Simon's morning report and one during his half-hour break at mid-morning. But he'd sat up late last night reading reports and this was definitely a three cup day, at the least. He rubbed his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and finally his whole face before giving in and reaching for the intercom.

It buzzed just as he was about to tap it. He jumped, gave it a bemused frown, and hit it. "Yes?"

"Sire," his secretary said. "Prime Minister Vorkosigan is here to see you."

The frown deepened. Aral didn't have an appointment for today; they were scheduled to meet over lunch tomorrow to talk about the speech Gregor was giving on the budget surplus in the Council of Counts next week. He didn't usually just drop in like this, especially without calling first; Gregor could have been out of the office for all he knew.

"Sire?" his secretary said.

"Er, yes. Send him in. Oh, and could someone perhaps bring me another cup of coffee? Please."

"Yes, Sire, of course."

Gregor tapped the intercom off. The door to his office slid open, admitting Aral, and then sighed shut again. Gregor shuffled some papers around on his desk, trying to make it look somewhat neater than it actually was, but when seconds went by and Aral didn't speak, he looked up. "Aral," he said, "good -"

The word _morning_ died on his lips. Aral stood by the door in a sort of parade rest, hands clasped behind his back. But his face - Gregor couldn't say what it was he saw there, but whatever it was frightened him. He suddenly didn't want to know what Aral had needed to say to him so urgently that he'd come over without an appointment, without even calling.

Miles or Cordelia. It could only be Miles or Cordelia - no. It had to be Miles, to put that terribly calm, utterly shattered look on his face. It had to be Miles and it had to be bad.

_Oh God, Miles, what have you done to yourself now?_

"Aral," Gregor said quietly, "won't you please sit?"

"Yes, Sire," Aral said, and did so. They looked at each other across the expanse of Gregor's desk.

Gregor swallowed. "Just tell me."

"Sire - Gregor. Miles is dead."

And just like that, the bottom fell out of Gregor's world. He'd expected - he didn't know what he'd expected. Grievously injured, perhaps - it wouldn't be the first time. But not - not _dead_. Miles was too _Miles_, too - he couldn't be dead. He couldn't be dead because Gregor had never told him. He'd always meant to tell him, always thought he'd say it once Miles came home, once he was done running away from Barrayar and everything that came with it, including Gregor himself. He couldn't be dead, because Gregor had never said _I love you_, never told him that he'd never so much as looked at any of the slim Vor beauties Alys had paraded past him because he was, quite simply, waiting for Miles. He'd been waiting for Miles since he was twenty-five.

He'd never said any of that and now he never would.

Aral was still talking, Gregor noted dimly. He had no idea what he was saying - at least, not until he said the word _cryochamber_, once and then again. Gregor blinked. "What?"

"Elli Quinn put him in a cryochamber," Aral said. "But then it was somehow . . . lost."

"Lost?" Gregor repeated. His hand clenched convulsively around a stylus. "How could it be lost?"

Aral shook his head. "I don't - it was a messy operation, and I'm still rather unclear - it appears Mark has resurfaced."

"Mark," Gregor said. "The clone?"

"Yes, it's all very - I'm sure Simon will have a report for you. But the short of it is that Elli Quinn and the Dendarii are moving heaven and earth to find him - there isn't anything the rest of us can do, I don't think. Except wait."

Gregor was certain that Aral found that idea about as appealing as he did. But it was true; his hands were tied, by his office and by Miles's cover both. He'd have been useless anyway. Daring rescues were not his specialty.

"Anyway," Aral said after a moment, "I need to get back - Cordelia -"

"Yes, of course," Gregor said, and stood. He came around the desk to walk Aral to the door. "Please, if there is anything at all that I can do -"

"Thank you, Gregor. I'll let you know." He did not sound as though he thought there would be.

The door sighed shut behind him. Gregor slowly returned to his desk. His face felt numb, he realized. And his hands and feet. He sank down into his chair, leaned forward on his desk, and buried his face in his hands. Why had he never said anything? Why had he not found the courage? There had always been reasons not to - a hundred of them, not the least of which was Miles himself. Gregor had always thought himself wise and patient for waiting, for loving Miles with a quiet fortitude all these years. He'd thought it poetic. Now he thought himself nothing but a coward. Quiet fortitude. What good had that ever done anyone?

He could not seem to move. Could not seem to unbend himself, remove his hands from his face. The door to his office sighed open and he sensed even, measured footsteps crossing to his desk.

"Sire," Armsman Flavion said quietly. "Your coffee."

Coffee. He had asked for coffee, hadn't he? A thousand years ago. He lowered his hands and looked at it. Flavion had put in the milk and sugar already and it was exactly the right shade of dark brown. Miles took his black. Had taken.

"Sire," Flavion said again. "Is everything all right?"

"No," Gregor managed. He swallowed. "Miles Vorkosigan is dead."

He was not looking at his armsman and thus did not see his reaction. There was a short silence and then Flavion said, "I'm so very sorry, Sire."

"So am I. There is some hope yet - he was put into a cryochamber, but then somehow it was lost." Gregor leaned his elbows on his desk again and rubbed at his temples. "I can't do this today," he murmured. But he had to - he had a meeting with his speech writers in two hours and then this afternoon he had . . . he didn't know anymore.

"Shall I have your secretary clear your schedule?" Flavion asked.

Gregor shook his head. "No, I have - I have -"

"Then this morning, at least, Sire. I'll have him clear your morning and you can go back to your apartment for a few hours. I'll have tea brought for you there." He didn't wait for an answer, merely gathered up the coffee on its tray and departed.

Gregor stayed seated for a few moments, grateful to Flavion for having taken the decision away from him. It was not, perhaps, responsible, nor was it particularly discreet to show himself to be so distraught over the news. But he could not find it within himself to care. A few hours to himself, a cup of tea - such paltry comfort, but it was all that was available to him. He had no one with whom he could mourn honestly.

_Come home, Miles. Come home and I'll tell you everything, I swear. Just come home._

Fin.


End file.
